Fated Ghosts
by RoseandThorns
Summary: It was supposed to be simple. John was supposed to have waited for me. I need him, need to tell him things. He...was supposed to still be at home. Mrs Hudson told me and I...really don't know what to do. John?
1. The ghost's return

Hello everyone! Just a short piece and depending on reviews a longer one next time. Please tell me if you want another one.

Much love!

...

Fated Ghosts.

Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. 

It was supposed to be simple. Our reunion. My return back to Baker Street. John was supposed to be there, a little older and perhaps a little angrier. He was supposed to answer the door when I knocked because my key was misplaced. I wanted him to stare at me with surprise and awe and MISS me. I had calculated the exact moment when recognition would hit him and his eyes would light up. An affectionate man like John would hug me and I would let him because I needed to feel him breathe.

But Mrs Hudson opened the door to me instead and she frowned at me, like she didn't know me. I looked passed her into the hall and toward the staircase, it was empty. Confused, I turned back to my little landlady who looked a little duller and slightly weaker. Three years is a long time when there isn't a lot of years left. Her eyes were watering badly with the beginning of tears gripping to her lashes. A gnarled hand touched her lips in surprise and tapped against the thin flesh.

"S-Sherlock?" She whispered and shook her head. "Silly old lady, Sherlock's dead."

"Mrs Hudson, use your brain. I am alive and standing before you in the cold. Let me in, I need to see John." I dismissed her and brushed passed her.

My footsteps were familiar on the stairs, nine steps up and a silly hop to avoid the stair that screamed under pressure. John wasn't in the living room tapping away happily on his blog or blundering around the kitchen bemoaning our lack of milk.

"John!"

Mrs Hudson had caught up with me and kept trying to distract me with words that got lost in her gasping breaths and I didn't have time. I raced toward John's bedroom and flung open the door, fully intending on frightening my small friend. But he wasn't there. I paused in the doorway bewildered by the bed that hadn't been slept in and the slightly stale air to the room. There was a fine layering of dust on the desk and the curtains were drawn tight. John hadn't been in here for days, more likely weeks. I tried to ignore the nagging feeling in my mind when I realised it was fear. Fear was irrational and not needed in this situation; there was a perfectly logical reason even if I hadn't found it yet.

"JOHN!"

Mrs Hudson was still standing next to my old armchair when I burst back into the living room and sprinted toward my bedroom. My hand gripped around the handle and I prayed to a God that couldn't possibly exist that my friend was safe behind the wood. The door swung open and I knew he wasn't. My room was deathly silent and dark like a tomb. Here the air was thick with mould and disuse but under it all, I smelt John. But he wasn't here. I stood in the middle of the room and felt hopelessly lost and insecure. I didn't understand why John wasn't here; he had no reason not to be. This was his home. Our home.

"Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson questioned.

I span around to her and wanted her to solve the mystery because I couldn't. "Where's John?"

"Come sit down dear and we'll talk."

She was keeping secrets from me. One that kept her up late at night weeping into her pillow case. Something that should never had happened. It chased her when she slept and whispered to her when she was awake. Then I looked closer into her eyes and something dropped inside my chest.

Blame.

My sweet, old landlady blamed me for something I had done. To her? A friend? ...John?

Wildly I shook my head and gripped my shoulder tightly. "I want John."

Mrs Hudson sighed softly and rubbed her forehead in thought. When she looked up at me there were still tears in her eyes and hopelessness. Secrets were bad. People got hurt. Someone had.

"I know, love. Uhm...please sit down and I'll promise I'll tell you everything that's happened. Okay?"

Numbly I nodded and sat down where I was, there was no time for chairs. Mrs Hudson lowered herself onto my musty bed sheets and pressed her fingertips together.

"Sherlock, you've been gone a long time."

"Three years, two weeks and twenty minutes." I informed her.

"A long time." She reiterated softly. "There are a few things you need to know. John's sister Harry died about two months after you did...didn't."

What on earth was that feeling that tightened in my chest? Oh...concern, John taught me that one.

"John?" I tucked my knees under my chin and stared at her.

"He didn't take it too well as you can imagine. He was already pretty bad from losing you. He shut himself away from everyone and we thought we were going to lose him too. But one day he just bounced back and was John again. I honestly thought he was okay, maybe I should have sent him to get some help."

"John was getting help for PTSD. He didn't need more help." Not my John.

Mrs Hudson shook her head and clenched her fists. "He stopped going and refused to go back. But he was better and I didn't think he would go off the rails."

"Off the rails?"

"He kept a stash of cigarettes under that old skull and I came up one day and he was smoking. Imagine it, our Doctor Watson puffing away like a chimney, I was so surprised."

My teeth started to grind together and the lump in my throat tightened oddly."He smokes?"

"He gave that up as well. I was so proud of him."

I grabbed her hands tightly and wanted to rush her passed details of John's decay so I could fix him.

"Where is he?"

"Oh, Sherlock! That's the problem. No one knows."

I forgot how to breathe and how to think. I sat uncomprehending in a dark room and couldn't tear my eyes away from the bowed head of Mrs Hudson. She made silly sniffling noises and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.

"What?"

"He left. About nine months ago. We can't find him. I'm sorry Sherlock."

She reached out to comfort me but I pulled away from her and hid away in our living room. A shrine, this room had become a shrine to me and later to John himself. My skull sat proudly on the windowsill and I could see the box of cigarettes through its teeth. The smiley face and bullet holes were still defacing one wall. John's laptop was resting on the table silently and I knew it hadn't been opened in months. Why hadn't John taken it with him? Why did he leave me?

I rummaged through my pockets and snatched up my new mobile phone. LeStrade's number was easy to remember even after all these years and I punched them hastily into the small machine.

"John?" LeStrade answered on the second ring, his voice frantic and hopeful.

"No, it's Sherlock." I corrected him.

"Sherlock? Funny, who is this? Tell me!" He was angry now, furious and I didn't fully know why.

"I am Sherlock Holmes. I demand to know where John is!"

"I don't know." Apparently he had decided to believe me and his words rushed out of him in a gasp. "I saw an unrecognised number and thought it was him. Oh god...no one knows. We haven't got a bloody clue. We simply got up one morning and he was gone."

"Didn't you look for him? For clues? Someone could have him hostage. They could be hurting him right now!"

"I know Sherlock! I've spent months looking for him."

"Look harder." I growled.

"I will. S-Sherlock, why are you back?"

"For John."

I hung up before he could reply and dropped the phone to the floor. Mrs Hudson tutted and picked it up and replaced it onto the table. How could John be gone? Without a word or a sign? John was loud and he was human and he didn't know how to disappear. Not like me. But what if he had learnt more from me than I thought he had?

If he had learnt to fade away into the crowds, how would I find him?

And what if he was lying hurt somewhere and we didn't know? Nine months is a long time to be kidnapped, there was no promise that John was even still breathing. It didn't make sense. I had come back for the stubborn blogger and he needed to be here. I fought to keep him safe from nightmares he shouldn't ever know about and he wasn't here to thank me.

Mrs Hudson patted my shoulder softly. "I'm glad you're alive, Sherlock. Somehow."

I didn't reply to her and she slipped away from me. The apartment was quiet in a way it shouldn't be. I wandered back into John's bedroom and flung open the curtains, welcoming the winter sunlight into the room. I needed John, wanted John near me and my feet made me move toward his wardrobe. All of John's stupidly large sweaters were still here, even the Christmas one that I had hated but hadn't told him. I dragged the familiar beige jumper toward me and buried my face in the scratchy wool. It still smelt faintly of him behind the mothballs and staleness. I tied the arms around my neck and methodically sorted through the boxes on the floor. One I opened was full of pictures, some of John as a child with a bright smile, Harry standing close by. Others of family members, birthdays and Christmases but one at the bottom caught my eye. It was me and John a few weeks before I had to leave and we were happy. John's eyes were gleaming and his lips were parted in unrestrained laughter. I was smiling and looking at John with a fondness I had never forgotten. This is how we were supposed to be, not separated from each other. John's Army tags were resting in a corner of the box and with terrifying certainty I understood.

John hadn't been kidnapped or stolen away from me. He had left me. He had moved away to start a new life where he could be someone else. That's why LeStrade couldn't find him; he was looking for a ghost. John Watson didn't exist. He had done exactly what I had and no one had noticed. His departure hadn't been as loud or as big as mine; he hadn't given the newspapers gossip or ripped hearts apart. His was as small as his size and he had left while the wound to my friends was still weeping and everyone was too numb to see. My John, always overlooked.

Gone. John.

Come back.

Who are you now? Are you still a Doctor? Are you in a war? Maybe a Captain again? Perhaps you're a husband and a father.

I missed you.

I'm sorry. Please, come home.

"Sherlock?" LeStrade was standing at the door with a panicked face and wild eyes.

Something dripped down my face and I touched my fingertips to it. Tears. John had made me that little bit human.

"John's not coming home anymore."

The photograph fell from my hands when I gripped my hair in despair and wailed.

Come home. I need you, my friend.


	2. Broken Doctor

Thank you for such encouraging reviews, I didn't expect that. He's there next chapter and I really hope you enjoy it.

Much love.

...

Fated Ghosts.

John Hamish Watson, Former Doctor, Captain and Consulting Detective.

I thought my small, silly world was over on the day that Sherlock decided to give up and jump. The day he had thrown himself over the edge and caved his intelligent head in. He hadn't waited for me to save him, hadn't let me.

For the first few weeks, I had hated him.

I was furious that he had dared to leave me so publicly and cruelly. Livid that he had shattered my belief in him and called himself a failure. The man I knew would never do that but then again I had never thought he would fall.

Not my friend.

But he had and I started to feel guilt. Because I hadn't been enough to make him fight.

I think I forgot how to function right for a little while. The nightmares never stopped and they mixed with war and death. There were so many nights when my screams awoke Mrs Hudson.

I missed Sherlock.

Then just when I was finding my feet and learning how to live without him again, Harry's body gave up on her. Years of alcohol abuse had ravaged her insides and I hadn't noticed. I was a Doctor, a good one but I hadn't seen my own sister dying until there wasn't enough time. Guilt was an all consuming monster and it stripped me bare and left me broken, hidden behind the closed curtains.

I didn't want to live with the bleeding ghost of Sherlock or the bloated corpse of Harry. So I left. While the world was sleeping and healing, I stole away from 221b Baker Street. My home had become a frightening shrine to a man who was willing to kill himself as I watched and not let me look away. I had taken only what I could fit in my pockets and ran. I knew Mrs Hudson would worry but she'd understand eventually. LeStrade had been distant for months, we had no real friendship, Sherlock had forged everything between us. Perhaps Mycroft looked for me in the beginning in some sort of misguided loyalty to his dead brother but he wouldn't find me.

John Hamish Watson died a lonely death in Baker Street when the world wasn't looking.

I needed to be something more. That was nine months ago and I haven't been back yet.

The man in the mirror is a little older; there are more lines around his eyes and the odd silver hair. He's not a stranger anymore, not now because I had grown to accept the grief in his eyes that would never heal. I was better now, nearly able to feel myself again. I missed Sherlock with every beat of my heart and mourned my sister but life wasn't able to stop. I still wanted to live. Perhaps I could kid myself for a few more years when I decided that Sherlock had thought me his friend. I smiled sorrowfully and rubbed my knuckles over my jumper. Sherlock had been my friend, he was wild and unpredictable and exhilarating. He gave an old army Doctor new legs and the rush of danger I'd been missing.

Life was boring now in the quiet town I had fled too. There were no crimes here, no murders that needed knowledge or even me. Here, people didn't know me so they didn't greet me in the streets. I had done that to myself, hidden away from people in my early weeks and earned the reputation of being strange and aloof.

Aren't you proud Sherlock?

You brilliant bastard.

I stood silently beside the window that looked out over the hills around me with a sad smile on my lips. I often found myself by a window, watching the world go by and wondered how many people had run away from their pasts. Maybe I had been a coward and I hadn't been as strong as I thought. I just hadn't been able to cope alone in the flat without Sherlock and Harry.

But I do miss you.

"Doctor Watson, you're needed in A and E immediately." Kelly informed me from the front desk.

I was still a Doctor, it was in my blood and I wouldn't have been able to leave that part of me behind. All the lives I saved started to make up for the ones I had lost. I smiled at Kelly and darted my eyes away when he smirked flirtatiously at me. There wasn't enough room left in this sorry heart for more ache and I could never return her feelings. She was only intrigued by the mysterious, broken Doctor Watson who was trying to escape his demons.

How would she look at me if she knew my guilt?

Numbly I turned and marched down the hallway toward A and E. This Hospital was different to the one in London, it was quieter and cleaner. The injuries weren't severe and I knew had to deal with gunshot wounds or stabbings. I was...bored here but had nowhere else to go. Doctor Morgan pointed me toward a cubicle with the curtains drawn and I nodded, praying he wouldn't notice the slump in my shoulders. I reached into the dispenser and tugged out a pair of latex gloves, wriggling my fingers through them as I pushed apart the paper blinds with my shoulder.

"Hello, I'm Doctor Watson. What's the problem?" I inquired as I fought with the stupid glove.

"Hello, John."

I froze; I recognised that voice with fury. I had left so I wouldn't be reminded of him. I clenched my fists tightly and felt my bones protest at the force.

"John?"

Mycroft sounded concerned, he looked concerned but he was a stuck up git who had no idea how worried he should be.

NO!

"Why are you here?" I snarled.

"You have worried a lot of people, John. I'm here to bring you home." He sounded like I was supposed to be thankful I had been found.

"I don't want to go back to London. I am home." I protested sharply.

"Don't be foolish John. Of course you aren't happy here, not now that Sherlock i-."

"I DON'T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT SHERLOCK! I screamed and didn't care that I cut the arrogant bastard off. "I...I can't deal with it."

"Doctor Watson? Is everything all right in there?" Doctor Morgan inquired in alarm.

"I'm fine. Sorry."

"...okay."

I glanced back to Mycroft and saw the confusion on his face and how it reflected in his eyes. How could he be surprised that I was angry and hurt by his little brother? I methodically tugged off my gloves and tossed them in the disposal bin.

"I'm sorry Mycroft. I'm sure you meant well but Sherlock is dead. He's not coming back." I didn't mean to sound so emotionless and detached. "Good bye."

I bid goodbye to the last remaining Holmes brother and slipped past Doctor Morgan and Kelly. I would probably lose my job but I had to run before Mycroft made me break down like a child.

I ran home and ignored the burning in my lungs and the cramps in my legs. People tutted and jumped away from mad Doctor Watson and his ghosts that natter endlessly in his ear. Mycroft had found me when I was venerable and wasn't expecting to see him ever again.

Stupid, stupid Mycroft!

I burst through my front door and slammed it behind me, throwing the lock wildly into place. My heart didn't calm down until I was standing in front of my television with my back to the window. Still gasping slightly, I clutched the back of my chair and tried to push away the memories of my dead best friend.

Sherlock. You unfeeling robot. How could you leave me like this?

"HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TOO ME? CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE? AND FUCK, I HOPE YOU'RE SORRY! WANKER!"

I screamed at the dusty face of Sherlock and to his place in the clouds high above me. He told me he didn't believe in the afterlife but he was wrong. If there was any justice anywhere, he was still sitting above me and he was watching the breakdown of my pathetic life.

I miss you.

There were no photographs in my house of Sherlock or my sister. Nothing to tell people they existed, everything that they had been was abandoned in London. My small home was empty of personality in away it had been before I had met Sherlock. I did realise that the manic whirlwind of Sherlock Holmes had brought splashes of colour to a dark world.

Why couldn't I find those colours myself?

I miss you more.

Tired and irritated, I shuffled toward my kitchen and poured myself a cup of tea with a surprisingly unsteady hand.

"Come now, Doctor Watson. Just listen to me." Mycroft ordered.

The sleek black car he was in crawled along beside me and he kept hanging out the back window shouting at me. People stared with gaping mouths at the sight and I had to see the humour. I was enjoying myself, sticking my nose high in the air and marching down the street, completely ignoring him. Sherlock would be so proud.

Mycroft had followed me home last night and was outside my door early morning as I left to do the grocery shopping. And he hadn't gone away! He was starting to annoy me as well as my neighbours.

"John, please! We need to talk."

I pressed my hands over my ears and shook my head wildly. Someone laughed nearby at my actions but Mycroft frowned.

"That's immature, John. You'll want to hear what I have to say."

"No I won't. I'm busy going shopping."

"You hate shopping, you have frequent rows with the chip and pin machine."

"Bah! It's better that talking to you."

By now we had reached the Supermarket and I slipped between the automatic doors. I did have an argument with the Chip and Pin machine and I did get pitying looks from staff members. I simply swept everything back into my basket and walked toward a manned till, with a wallet full of notes. Even John Watson could learn from mistakes. The girl on checkouts smiled warmly at me and reached for the plastic bags under her station.

"Good morning, sir. How are you?"

"Fantastic, just had a row with the self serve till." I confessed.

She laughed. "Yes, a lot of people do. They're tricky things to work."

"Glad I'm not the only one."

"You're not, honest."

I packed my fruit and vegetables into a plastic bag and reached for my wallet but a hand on mine stopped me. The expensive suit could only mean one person and I frowned as I glared at him.

"I'll pay for this." He informed the girl.

"The hell you will, Mycroft. I'll pay, love."

She shrugged and accepted the cash from my hand. She sent us both odd smiles and dismissed us with a wave of her hand. Mycroft followed me out of the shop and down the street. His car followed us and I began to feel like I was leading a parade. It was beyond ridiculous and there was no logical reason for this man to be hounding me at all. We had nothing in common anymore, only the dead.

"Why won't you leave me alone?" I asked.

"Because you won't listen to me and you really need to."

"I'm not going back to London. There's nothing for me there." I informed him sadly.

"Yes, I am sorry about your sister but things have happened that you don't know about."

Concern flashed through me. "Mrs Hudson? LeStrade? Are they hurt?"

"No. They're all fine. That's not why I'm here."

We turned into the garden of my house and I dropped my bags at my feet and stared at the older man.

"Then what?"

"Perhaps we should talk about this inside John. I'd hate to cause a scene."

"We'll talk about it right here! You've been following me for days. Tell me!"

Mycroft took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders. Then he fixed the most intense gaze I'd ever had on me and grabbed my shoulders tightly. I panicked a little bit and tried to pull away but some excitement in his face stilled me.

"Sherlock's alive, John."

There was silence for a moment, I couldn't think and I couldn't act. Then my fist unfroze and I punched the British Government.

Mycroft stared up at me form where he had landed sprawled on his back. My chest was heaving, I was crying and my heart was breaking.

"Why? Why are you doing this to me? He's dead! I watched him jump!" I shouted breathlessly.

Slowly Mycroft stood back up and waved of his goons. His jaw would swell and his lip was bleeding but I couldn't feel regret for hurting a liar who was ripping me apart.

"It was faked, John. All planned just to keep you safe."

"Sherlock wasn't a fake. Nothing about him was faked. He was a genius." I hissed through my suddenly endless tears.

Mycroft put a steady hand on my shoulder and tried to smile at me around his blood.

"That's right. He wasn't a fake and he did it all to protect you."

"NO!"

I wanted to believe him. Somehow my miracle had been answered but how could it be? Even Sherlock couldn't come back from the dead, it didn't work that way. Life didn't work that way.

Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.

My best friend.

Then suddenly Mycroft was pushing something soft and warm into my hands. I glanced down at it and sobbed louder. Sherlock's scarf. The only one he had ever seemed to own. I held it tightly to my chest and didn't understand.

"H-How can you have this?"

"Sherlock gave it to me, John. When I told him I was going to look for you. He wanted you to have it."

A hysterical laugh left my throat and Mycroft's face tightened in worry.

I want to believe. I want to believe.

Oh God, let this be real.

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

"I...need to be alone, please."

Mycroft nodded and slipped a piece of paper between my clenched fingers. "Call him, John."

I nodded softly and opened my front door, barely remembering to pick up my abandoned food. I shut the door in his face and barely waited until I had crossed the threshold to collapse to the floor.

I brought the scarf up to my face, amused that it still smelt like him even after all these years. I didn't understand. I thought I had everything worked out. Sherlock was gone but that was okay because I was here and he was watching over me.

But what if he had been alive all this time?

Had he been too busy to call? Wasn't I important enough just for a text message?

Sherlock can't have forgotten about me that quickly, right?

I thought I knew him and his manic ways. Apparently I hadn't. I wasn't enough. But when had I ever been?

I miss you.

...But I also think...I hate you...

Mycroft lied to me. Sherlock didn't have a chance to be alive.

Stupid, stupid Holmes brothers. Shredding my heart again.


	3. I've been waiting for you

Thank you for all your encouraging reviews and alerts, they really make me smile. Please, keep reviewing and enjoying my work.

Much love xx

...

Fated Ghosts

I've been waiting for you.

Sherlock Holmes...Former Consulting Detective...

John. John. John. John. John. John.

His name bounced against my mind, reminding me of what in my pride I had lost. I hadn't taken care of John, I thought I had. Mrs Hudson tells me I haven't, friends don't make friends cry. I didn't think he would cry over me. John was strong; he had been in the Army and seen men die horrendous agonised deaths. Why be affected by my death?

LeStrade said it was because John wasn't prepared for it. He didn't wake up that morning with the possibility I could be gone. He thought we'd have tomorrow together.

I was...wrong...and I'm...so sorry...

Where are you, John?

I curled my fingers around John's china mug, holding the handle delicately almost afraid it would break if I breathed on it. Mrs Hudson fluttered around me making a nuisance of herself. She kept flattening my hair and pushing it back behind my ears. I waited until her back was turned and messed up my locks again. She grinned and slowly shook her head in exasperation. Now that I knew more I could easily read the despair in her eyes. Both 'her boys' had been lost to her for a little while and now she only had one back. Sometimes when she looked at me I could see her trying to convince herself that it really was me.

Still...she blamed me for John's absence. For the heartache my mistakes had caused.

The heat from the tea blistered my fingertips slightly and I lowered the mug to the table with grace and didn't let go until I knew it was stable. There were no leads on John, nothing that could tell me where he had gone. I had searched every stupid inch of this apartment without success. I knew why LeStrade had struggled to find anything. There was nothing to be found. I didn't understand how John could have managed that.

I dragged my hands through my grimy hair and stared blankly at the empty apartment. I had been alone for so long before John and it was infuriating that I had forgotten how to cope. Everything was too quiet and ordinary without my blogger. Days dragged endlessly and the nights were cold, dark portals in which nightmares could strike.

"Sherlock?" LeStrade questioned hesitantly.

The man hadn't left me alone since I had broken down on John's floor last night. Perhaps he was right to fear for my sanity.

"I want John."

LeStrade sighed loudly and dragged his hands over his aged face. "We're looking for him. Mycroft's hunting up some new leads. We'll catch up to him eventually."

"Mycroft? Why does he care?"

LeStrade shrugged one shoulder and massaged the back of his neck. "I assume once he knew you were coming back for good, he started looking for John again. Knew you'd need him."

I frowned. "This is all very selfish off John. He should be here waiting for me."

LeStrade's eyes flashed dangerously and he huffed a gust of air through his nose. I blinked up at him in surprised fear. He pressed his fingertips together and leant his elbows on his knees.

"Sherlock, I know this is new for you. Having a best friend I mean but you need to understand what John went through. I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did, I'm not sure I could. He saw you fall and we had to drag him away, screaming for you. He was never going to be completely all right after that and then Harry got sick and didn't get better. John was struggling at work and probably bordering on depression. His nightmares came back in full force; Mrs Hudson says that on some night he didn't awaken even after she threw buckets of water over him. John didn't leave YOU, he left himself behind. John didn't know you were still alive. He didn't think he was leaving anything behind him."

There were a few tense moments of silence as I tried to digest LeStrade's words. John's pain shouldn't exist but it seemed so foreign to me. I hadn't tried to hurt him. That had never been my intention. Moriarty hadn't given me a choice. John was the only person too look at me and accept me, possibly even the only one who grew to enjoy my company.

My...best friend? Yeah. That sounds about right.

"Why didn't you help him?"

"I tried. I tried so fucking hard but he wouldn't let me. He kept saying 'I'm all right, Greg. Things are going to get better, Greg. Sherlock wouldn't want me to hide away, Greg." LeStrade beat his knuckles firmly against the table top. "What could I do? He didn't need me, or Mrs Hudson or even Sarah. He needed you. We weren't good enough."

"What's so great about me?"

"Sherlock. John respects you, he trusts you. You're his best friend. That's why he needed you."

"I miss him."

"We all do. But Mycroft will find him."

I had very little doubt that john would evade Mycroft for long but I didn't trust Mycroft not to scare John away and make him run again. People kept telling me my friend was unstable and fragile. Mycroft might not be the best person to send after him.

"Sherlock. Moriarty...is he...?" LeStrade began and couldn't find the words he wanted.

"He's dead, shot himself on the roof, remember? His network is gone as well. It's where I've been."

"What happened?"

"I will only talk to John about it."

LeStrade sighed again but nodded softly. "Whatever you say, Sherlock."

"Good bye, LeStrade."

"What? Oh...okay. Good night Sherlock."

He left the room silently with his shoulders slightly slumped and I heard him murmur goodbye to Mrs Hudson. She poked her head in the door but I stubbornly turned my face away from her and pressed it into the fabric of the chair.

_Sherlock,_

_You bloody brilliant cruel bastard. How could you jump like that? Why did you let me watch you die? You should have come to me, I could have helped you. Like I had done before._

_You were my best friend and I suppose I'll always love you. No matter what you may or may not have felt for me. I will always treasure our memories. Always treasure you._

_Good Bye, my friend._

_John._

I stopped reading the letter typed on John's laptop with clenched eyes and guilt thick in my gut. I had found what I had been looking for, hidden in file after file and insanely deep inside the network of the laptop. Somewhere deep inside, I knew that John had written his final letter to me. Someone as sentimental as John would need to write the words on his heart away from prying eyes.

I treasure you, John.

I'll find you, somewhere.

"Sherlock."

I groaned aloud. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

He didn't answer quickly enough and I span around in my chair. His lip was split, the skin raw and inflamed. An injury that had happened recently, more likely within the last few hours. I stood up and peered closer at the bruise around his mouth. I was almost sure I recognised the knuckle imprints and knew the exact force behind the punch. Someone with training had thrown this at my brother.

"Mycroft?"

"I found him, brother. I found John."

I surged to my feet and danced around him in wild circles. "Where? Is he hurt? Is he okay? Did you tell him about me?...He punched you, didn't he?"

"He wasn't best pleased to see me. He liked it even less when I told him you were alive."

"He doesn't want me to be alive?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "He didn't believe me. Go and change his mind."

There was a large bubble of appreciation inside my chest for Mycroft but there was no will to act on it. Mycroft held out a single piece of paper folded neatly in half.

"His address." I stated.

He nodded and placed it on the table before me and swept out. I barely waited until he had left the building before seizing my coat and throwing it around my shoulders.

John's house was small, all his meagre budget could afford I theorised. The walls were a brick work red and the blue paint peeled from the front door. The hedge row hadn't been managed in anyway and spindles of twigs sprouted of in weird angles. There was no car in the driveway but there was no impression of tyres on the gravel. I wandered up the garden path and noticed a small patch of copper blood on the stones. Mycroft had been foolish to talk to John in the open. A few moments of fiddling with the lock and the door slid soundlessly open. John wasn't here, that much I knew. The lights were of and the television a dull black. The living room was tiny and rather bland. A second hand armchair sat in one corner with John's slippers tucked neatly to one corner. His table was organised with piles of books stacked, I opened the nearest one to me and grinned when I realised it was about medicine. John must still be a doctor. The kitchen was even smaller, barely enough room to turn around. The fridge hummed nosily and when I opened it the light flickered, near the end of its life. John was out of milk as usual but it was odd not to see one of my experiments nestled next to it. I almost didn't go into his bedroom, afraid to see when he now dwelled when he should be with me. But I decided he wouldn't be living here for much longer and happily pushed open the door. It was military. There was really nothing else to this room. The bed was made, the covers stretched across the bed. There was nothing on the desk in the far corner. No personality that screamed John. John needed me to save him. That much was obvious. I prowled back into the living room and sat on the arm of his chair. I couldn't take my eyes of the door.

Three hours, twenty minutes and twelve seconds later John returned back to his house. There was nervous excitement building in my chest. I heard him walking unevenly up the pathway and new that Mycroft's visit had aggravated his limp. He jingled his house keys with a hand that appeared to be shaking and I heard him move plastic bags around. He kicked open the front door and moved straight into the kitchen without looking at me. Annoyed that he hadn't even looked for me when there was a real possibility I had found him, I followed him into the kitchen and hovered by the doorway.

"John?"

"ARGH!" He yelped and span around.

He blinked rather pathetically at me for a few moments then did something I'm sure made sense to him. He grabbed a loaf of bread from his bag and promptly threw it at me. It bounced off my chest and landed on the floor with a dull thud. I stared at it in bewilderment and couldn't even begin to understand why he had decided to do that.

"Really, John. What did that accomplish?" I questioned and raised my gaze back to him.

He had aged, there was slight wrinkled around his eyes and grey hairs around his ears. He looked tired both physical and mentally. His hand trembled as he raised it to his lips and bit down on his knuckles. He was wearing a new sweater, one that hung of his frame and I noticed for the first time he had lost weight. He shook his head manically and raised one hand to tug at his hair.

"You are not real. You are dead. The bread hit nothing. I am not seeing Sherlock Holmes standing in my kitchen. Mycroft was wrong."

"Mycroft is usually wrong but this time, although it pains me to say, he's right. I am here John."

"Crap."

This wasn't right. John wasn't supposed to swear at me. He wasn't meant to throw things at me. I wanted him to tell me he'd missed me and he was glad I was home. But he wasn't. John was angry with me, furious because I had hurt him. His chin quivered slightly and he worried his lip.

"John?"

"How can you possibly be alive?" He hissed. "You fell."

"I...I know John. But I'm not here to discuss that."

"Of course not. Why are you here then? Get bored?"

"You're my friend."

"Ha! Friends don't hurt friends."

"Friends protect friends. You told me that."

Something shifted in his eyes and I realised then he hadn't fully believed me until I had uttered those words. He sagged against the counter and stared up at me with wounded eyes.

"I thought you were dead. Why would you do that too me?"

"To save you."

John scoffed and pushed passed me, stalking into his living room and pacing around the space. I went to touch his sleeve but he wrenched himself away and placed the armchair between us. I hated to admit how much that hurt me.

Do you hate me now, John?

Oh God, what have I done to us?

"No. No. No. No. No. Don't touch me. I'm not even convinced you're real. Where have you been?"

"Europe. Hunting Moriarty's web." I gushed out my truths, desperate to make him believe me.

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

You...you're crying?

"John?"

He scrubbed his fingertips across his face hard enough to aggravate the skin and leave red splotches behind. He seemed so small and fragile now that I could see him with a crack in his defences. The years had been lonely for him, as lonely as it had been for me. He couldn't hide the tears that wanted to fall and they gathered acidic in his eyes.

"I had your blood on my hands!"

"It wasn't mine."

"I didn't know that! Oh, God!"

Suddenly he sank to his knees on the carpeted floor and hid his face from me. This time he let me touch his shoulder and rest my hand awkwardly on his shoulder blade. I remembered I had cried when I stood on top of the building. Cried for what I would leave behind and the lies I would have to tell.

"I'm sorry, John."

"I don't believe you.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

I really thought I'd won.

Come home, John?


	4. As the world spins

Fated Ghosts.

When the world spins.

John Watson...I don't even know who I am anymore.

There were so many profound things I had planned to say to Sherlock if he ever chose to give me my miracle. I was going to admit I'd missed him dreadfully and punch the arrogant smirk of his face. After he had been around for a few days I was going to confess that life hadn't been the same without him and ask if we could move back home. There wasn't going to be tears or any breaking of my human heart. Maybe I'd even manage to get a quick hug out of the Detective. Sherlock was never going to know how badly I was hurting.

I destroyed everything I had planned within five minutes.

The loaf of bread still littered my kitchen floor, bent out of shape from its impact with Sherlock's chest. My groceries were abandoned on the kitchen counter and the milk really needed to be in the fridge. But to get the kitchen I would have to pass Sherlock and I wasn't sure I could do that. He watched me with calculating eyes; he'd probably already decided his latest experiment while I gapped at him. Sherlock didn't look any different, eyes still bright and cold, skin still a bit too pale and his body much to skinny. His dark curls were hanging in clumps around his forehead and I wandered when he had last thought to wash it. He patted my shoulder again in a useless attempt off comfort because I was pretending very hard that I couldn't sense him behind me. My silly world was spinning on its axis in disbelief and shock. I just couldn't comprehend anything anymore. Sherlock sighed and his boredom seeped into the noise but he really seemed to be trying.

"Are you going to get up sometime, John?" He questioned.

It was only then I registered the floor beneath my knees and that Sherlock looked down at me more than he usually did. I clambered to my knees and felt my blasted leg nearly give way. A steady hand around my arm steadied me and guided me to my armchair.

"John?"

Sherlock squatted down in front of me and stared at my leg without blinking. The phantom injury sent sparks of pain down my leg and I bent down to massage the muscles.

"It's fine." I snapped and glared up at him. "I don't understand. Why aren't you dead?"

His eyebrows creased slightly. "It was just a magic trick. I wanted to keep you safe."

"You couldn't have sent me a message somehow?"

"No. Moriarty's men were everywhere. You were probably being watched."

That frightened me a little bit, realising I had been in danger without knowing it. Now the eyes from alleyways made sense, they had stopped suddenly though. Suppose the reason for that was sitting opposite me looking like a scolded child.

"But we both know you're insanely clever, Sherlock." He glowed a little bit at my praise. "Couldn't you have tried?"

The force in which he shook his head with surprised me as did the sudden fear in his eyes. The strength of his denial struck a pain inside me that I didn't recognise. Had he really wanted to be away from me that badly? Sighing loudly, I flopped back into the cushions of the chair and ignored Sherlock's eyes on me.

"Come home, John?" He asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Come back t o 221B Baker Street." He repeated and I knew he was wondering what kind of an idiot I was.

"Doesn't anyone live there now? It's been over nine months after all."

"Well, yes."

"So how can I come back?"

"You don't want to live with me?"

"Wait! YOU live there?"

He squinted at me and tilted his head. "Yes. Do keep up John. Will you?"

I threw myself away from the sofa and paced around the room, ignoring the throb in my leg. This was everything I had ever wished for. Sherlock living, breathing and asking me to return home. The whole that had been a constant companion in my heart slowly starting to knit fractured edges together. And yet I was grotesquely afraid of it. Terrified of the day when everything would fall out from underneath me and leave me fumbling in the darkness again.

"I-I need to think about it."

"What's to think about? Yes or no, John. It's a very simple answer."

"BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW!"

Sherlock was a shocked as I was, his eyes wide and startled. I clamped my hands over my lips as soon as I had yelled at him.

"Sorry. I'm so sorry."

Sherlock nodded minutely and his eyes followed me as I wandered around my tiny living room. I did miss the space of Baker Street and the company of Mrs Hudson and Sherlock.

"You are having a conflict with yourself. You want to return to Baker Street and yet you are afraid. Why?"

That was the Sherlock I remembered. Curious and completely oblivious to my feelings.

"I do want to but I need time. To sort this lot out and get my head on straight."

I glanced up at Sherlock, he was biting his lips and looked oddly nervous and...guilty.

"LeStrade said that you were 'struggling and bordering on a depression.' Were you?"

"LeStrade may have been exaggerating a little bit. I wasn't that bad."

"But you were?"

"I-I don't really want to talk about it."

"You'll come home?"

"...Yes."

There was a lovely feeling of De JA Vu as Sherlock and I made our return to 221B Baker Street in the back of a black taxi. I remembered our youthful selves giggling in a taxi after Sherlock stole an ashtray from Buckingham Palace. I sat rigid beside Sherlock as the radio played endless pop songs that started to annoy me. Sherlock tapped away on his phone and had barely spoken a word to me since I had agreed. London had seemed so far away in the small town I had ended up in. Big and a dream I wanted so badly to die. Never had I thought I would be returning to it and disturbing the ghosts of the past.

"You have seventy-two grey stands on the left side of your head, John." Sherlock deduced.

Flustered and a little bit hurt I turned to glare at the man and looked over his hair for any silver. Disgruntled that I couldn't find any I scrutinised his face instead.

"You have more wrinkles."

"Of course. I am three years older."

"Don't remind me." I grumbled.

It was only when I looked out my window I realised that we had just driven past Bart's and my worst nightmare. I bumped Sherlock's knee in appreciation and saw a smile flicker onto his face.

"Does Mrs Hudson know I'm coming back?" I asked conversationally.

"No. Did you want her too?"

"Not really. I want to get settled before she yells at me. She's bound to be furious with me. I would be."

"You'd be surprised."

The lights of London flickered passed the window and people hurried behind the glass in the afternoon sun. I don't know why I had expected everything to have change in my absence. Maybe I wanted some small sign that I had been missed but I was insignificant to this large city. A nobody.

I wasn't ready for the taxi to pull up outside Baker Street and Sherlock to hop out with grace. Clumsily I followed after him and snagged my bags from the cabbie. He accepted the money I offered him and disappeared back into the traffic. I watched him go and finally couldn't put of turning around any longer. My fingers tightened around my bag as I span on my heel and glanced up at the grey building. Sherlock had already bounded inside and left the door open for me in a silent invite. It took every small scrap of nerve and courage in me to return to the place that I had run from and lift my feet through the threshold. Nothing in the hallway was any different, the same walls and the same pictures. Did Sherlock feel this way when he'd returned? Like a lost traveller returning home? It felt serial to be back here and know that the bubbly detective was upstairs waiting for me.

"Hurry up, John!" He beckoned.

"I'm coming." I answered quietly.

Sherlock perched on his old armchair with bouncing knees and fidgeting hands. For a moment the past knocked the breath out of me and I couldn't get it back. It looked like he had never left, never died or smashed his head open. I really didn't understand. My bag dropped from my trembling fingers with a loud thud.

"Sorry." I mumbled.

"Don't worry. Tea?"

I nodded numbly as Sherlock wandered toward the kitchen. Nothing had changed. Why hadn't anything changed? Just something to prove I hadn't imagined the last three years off hell and tears. My laptop hadn't even moved and it wasn't dusty. Sherlock started to call something to me but I span on my heel and sprinted toward my bedroom door. I didn't hesitate to throw myself against the wood and let it swing open in front of me. The room was a mess, forgotten clothes scattered across the floor and photos dug up from the battered cardboard box in the wardrobe.

"John. We're out of milk." Sherlock informed me.

"Did you do this?"

He gazed around the room and shrugged a bony shoulder. "Go out and get some milk, John."

"Get it yourself."

"I can't I'm thinking."

"Yeah? Well so am I."

To my surprise, Sherlock didn't argue with me just turned to the door and opened his mouth before I realised what he was going to do.

"Sherlock don't-."

"MRS HUDSON!"

"Call Mrs Hudson. Really? You couldn't have gone for some?"

He wrinkled his nose at me and looked despairingly down at me. "I can't be expected to do something like that."

"But I can?"

"Of course."

Our landlady's heels clicked on the stairs as she made her slow way up. I wanted to hide until I was ready to face her and sort myself out. Sherlock hadn't let me and anger bubbled underneath my skin. I patted down my hair and tugged on my old sweater, determined to only look at my shoes. Finally I heard Mrs Hudson creak into the room.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"We're out of milk and John won't go."

"I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock. Wait a minute...JOHN?"

She threw the door back with surprisingly force and made it thud back against the wall. Her face paled rapidly and she shook. Her reaction frightened me further and I hovered uselessly in front of her. But then I saw the tears gather in her eyes and stepped toward her.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"John. Oh, John!" she breathed.

Suddenly her hands were framing my face and smoothing away my hair. Dancing her hands over the lines on my face and easing away the permature frown on my forehead. She looked so happy she practically glowed with it. I looked back at her in wonder as crystal tears finally slipped down her aged cheeks, now so similar to my own. I was prepared for her thin arms to wrap around my middle and hold my tight. I squeezed her back careful not to hurt her.

"You silly man, John Watson. Where did you go?"

"Nowhere special. I'm sorry I ran away."

"I understand. It must have been difficult for you without Sherlock."

"Mm."

"Are you staying?"

On the bed Sherlock suddenly sat bolt upright with a look of pure alarm on his sharp features. Did he honestly really care anymore? Or did he just want his side kick back again?

Could I really exist with this mad, whirl wind of a man...and survive if he decides to leave me again?

But he looked so fearful and Mrs Hudson's eyes were so bright and full of hope that I had to nod and agree.

"Yes. For now anyway."

Mrs Hudson squealed and babbled something about making tea. Sherlock's reaction was a timid quirk of his lips and a touch to my shoulder as he glided passed.

"Oh, John dear. Here you are." Mrs Hudson pressed my fourth cup of tea into my hands.

She hovered around Sherlock and I with fluttering hands and gentle touches. Sherlock had eventually gotten bored and disappeared into his bedroom with a sweep of his dressing gown.

"Thank you."

She smiled softly and folded herself down onto the chair that I offered her, glancing back at Sherlock's bedroom door.

"I really think he missed you, John. He was awfully upset to come back and be told you'd gone somewhere."

"I didn't mean to upset him. I didn't even know I could! Bastard made me think he was dead."

"We all thought that. But he must have had his reasons. He hasn't said anything?"

"Sherlock lower himself to talk to me? Hardly." I scoffed and yelped when she whacked my knee.

"Enough John. You frightened him. Badly. He even broke down in front of Greg."

"Oh, LeStrade's still around, is he?"

"Greg said you'd had some kind of disagreement. You really should talk to him, he's been awfully worried. Barely ever stopped looking for you."

"Everyone's making such a big deal about this. I wasn't kidnapped or anything like that. I moved out!"

"You didn't leave a note or tell anyone. And you were in such a state. We thought you'd done something...daft."

I racked my fingertips through my hair and clenched the china mug with the other.

"I wasn't that bad, was I?"

"There were days when I wondered if you were going to make it the whole day. Didn't you notice Greg was always around then?"

"You had LeStrade on babysitting duty?"

"We were worried about you."

"I'm sorry."

She patted my hand. "That's all right, dear. It's in the past. How's Sherlock?"

"I haven't asked him to be honest. This is all a little strange. I think he's okay but I'll ask him tomorrow."

"Good." She glanced at her watch. "I best go to bed. Good night John."

"Night."

"Night Sherlock!" She called into the darkness.

"Night Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock replied to my shock.

"He was listening to whole time, wasn't he?"

"Most likely."

"Perfect."


	5. I wish I could turn back time

Fated Ghosts.

I wish I could turn back time.

Sherlock Holmes...Still a former Consulting Detective.

John's ignoring me and I can't decide if he really knows he is. There's no dramatic sweeping from the room whenever I enter or stubborn refusal to sit next to me. He just turns his body slightly away from me when it used to face toward me. It takes him five seconds longer to talk to me and he remembers my cup of tea at the last second. He told me he needed time and now I wonder if he wanted time to forget me. I know the human mind is stupidly fragile and the wounds inflicted on it can never heal but I just never thought that John's would fester and grow. I did all this to save him.

My blogger has changed so much in three short years. There's more personal grief in his eyes and he's haunted by whispers I can't hear. John doesn't blog anymore, we've been reunited for two days and he hasn't even glanced at his laptop. He keeps his phone switched of now, in fear of Cara's drunken calls. He hasn't asked me how I feel or demanded answers from me. There's no concern in his eyes anymore.

I don't understand why he doesn't care.

"Why are you upset?" I questioned.

John looked up from the dancing people on the television screen and fixed tired eyes on me. "I'm not."

"You're lying."

He shifted in his seat slightly. "Does it matter?"

_You have no idea how much it matters._

"Yes."

Surprise flickered across his features for a moment before the spark shut down and he went back to flicking through the channels.

"I'm fine."

I tugged at my curls in frustration and pressed my palms against my eyes. I wanted him to talk to me the way he'd talked to Mrs Hudson, open and admitting to not being okay. But he wouldn't. Because I was cold and a bastard. Too arrogant and selfish for someone like John to care about.

"Hey, are you okay?"

He touched my knee softly and I jerked my head up to find his face. He jumped back slightly at my reaction but pressed his hand harder to me. I shook my head and abandoned every silly wall I had around me. John's lips tightened in worry and he dropped the remote down beside him. My heart leaped into my mouth and he slowly turned his body back toward me.

"What's wrong?"

"I miss you. How can I miss you when you're sitting in front of me? It doesn't make any sense. I miss you, John. Why don't you care?"

"I care Sherlock. I've never stopped caring." He smirked slightly. "I didn't think a high functioning sociopath would miss me."

I heard the joke and knew what he was trying to make me laugh but it just made me bury my head in my hands.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. What's really the problem?"

_Why can't YOU be what's wrong?_

"I'm tired. I'm going to bed." I declared and dislodged John's hand as I struggled to my feet.

"Oh, okay. Good night."

As I left the room, John starting flicking through the channels again.

_I didn't mean to do this to you._

John was dreaming, his screams were shattering the quietness of the night. I crouched on the floor outside his bedroom door and listened to him wail. He cried for me and begged for Harry, his sleeping mind forgetting what his conscious one knew. The door clicked open softly and I slipped inside. When I was a child Mycroft had told me that caring wasn't an advantage. As I grew older I realised it would only slow me down. But then I met John and his demons and I couldn't stop caring if I wanted too. I crept toward him in the darkness with a pounding heart. The blankets had tangled around his waist and legs, tightening as he kept kicking and grasping at things I couldn't see.

"John." I hissed. "Wake up."

"...Sherlock! Sorry..."

I frowned and poked his side hard. John swatted at my hand and screamed again.

"Really John. This has to stop, it's unhealthy." I informed my small Doctor. "John!"

"Is he okay, Sherlock?" Mrs Hudson whispered from the doorway.

"Perfectly fine, Mrs Hudson. Go back to bed."

She nodded and walked away, it took a few seconds of my time to reply to her and let my concentration slip. John's fist connected with my cheek and knocked me to the floor with a ringing head. A heart beat later John gasped awake. I clutched my cheek in surprised pain and looked up into John's suddenly startled eyes.

"Sherlock? Oh, God, did I hit you?" He gasped.

"Apparently you did. Use your eyes, John." I growled.

His eyes were wide with fear from his nightmare and the fright of finding me on the floor. He clumsily threw of his bed sheets and crouched down on the floor beside me. I thought about being afraid and lashing back at him but John was frantic and looked upset.

"I am so sorry, Sherlock. Can I see it? Please, let me look."

His hands fluttered around my face until I lowered mine slowly. John's fingertips were warm against my throbbing skin and he never pressed to hard or lingered to long. He trembled as he worked in the dim moonlight, his body coiled up in tension.

"It'll bruise. Damn, I am sorry. I didn't mean to. You know that, right?"

"I do. It's all right, John."

_It really is okay. Because you're talking to me._

I jumped slightly when John lowered his head to my shoulder and inhaled shakily. His dream was still banging against him mind and unsettling him. His fingertips curled around my dressing gown sleeve and he slowly started to lean back. His cheeks were flushed in embarrasement and he couldn't look at me. He never used to be ashamed of his emotional outburst. What changed?

"I'm sorry." He whispered.

Despite myself and Mycroft, I reached out and pulled John back toward me. My heart and pulse only started to calm when he settled himself back against my shoulder.

_We'll be all right. Wont we?_

"Open this door, Sherlock Holmes! Open it!"

LeStrade banged nosily on our front door in the early afternoon. Mrs Hudson had left to visit friends on the other side of London and couldn't open the door to the Policeman. John grumbled awake from his doze on the sofa and gazed sleepily around us.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

"Is that LeStrade?

"Yes. Shall I let him in?"

"Might as well. He'll kick the door down otherwise." John shrugged. "I need to change my clothes."

He hobbled into his bedroom with his hand clasping his walking stick tightly. LeStrade moaned and grumbled at me when I opened the front door to him and let him follow me back up into the apartment. Donavan and Anderson hovered by the Police car with their mouths hanging open unattractively. Judging by Anderson's face the smirk I sent them wasn't the best idea I'd ever had. But did they really think I cared?

"Why are you banging on our door LeStrade?" I asked.

"We have a new case. We need you."

A tremor of thrill shot around my body at his words. It was delightful to be needed again, to have something I was good at. There was almost no doubt that I could convince John to come with me. He lived for the excitement too.

"What's happened?"

"Woman found murdered. No wounds. Interested?"

"Very. JOHN!"

"John?" LeStrade echoed.

There was a loud thump from down the hall and John's muffled curses. His footfalls were uneven against the floor and I deduced that his leg was acting up. LeStrade's reaction was comical when John finally stepped in through the door. His eyes widened and he dropped the coat he clung to. At the dull thud the material made, John looked up and smiled softly at LeStrade.

"Hello, Greg." John greeted.

Before either John or I could full comprehend it, LeStrade shot across the floor and wrapped his arms around John's small shoulders. John yelped in surprise and patted LeStrade's back awkwardly.

"It's good to see you too, mate." John grinned.

"Damn, I'm sorry, John. I'm glad you're...you haven't...you know."

"Drowned myself? Shot myself? Cut myself? Any of the above?"

Unnoticed by the other two men I stiffened and ran an alarmed eye over John's face and his arms. He was wearing a long sleeve shirt that touched his knuckles. I stepped forward to grasp the sleeves but John pushed them up to his elbows himself. Pale and unmarred skin met my eyes and my heart slowed slightly.

"Uh...all of the above." LeStrade winced slightly.

"I wasn't as bad as you and Mrs Hudson seem to believe I was." He muttered.

"I know. Sorry."

John just shrugged. "Why are you here anyway?"

"Oh! A new case! Sherlock's coming with us, are you?"

My short blogger turned to me. "Will it be dangerous?"

"Yes."

"I'm in."

The crime scene turned out to be a small shed in the back of some man's garden. He babbled to the police and made unintelligible noises. The traces of a woman's lipstick on the underside of his jaw and the poor condition of his wedding band lead me to believe he had been the murderer. Once I had deducted this I was quiet bored but followed LeStrade into the shed, John hanging back outside and complaining about the lack of space. The women on the floor had dyed purple hair and jeans that looked too tight. She had only just seen her thirty first birthday last week and by the state of her nails was a keen gardener. The wedding ring on her finger was clean and loved. Another crime of passion that John's readers loved so much.

"It was the husband." I declared.

LeStrade looked up at me from his crouch beside the body with a furrowed brow.

Anderson scoffed from outside. "And how do you know that?"

"Her wedding band is cared for and cleaned often. His is dirty and often removed. He has another lover somewhere within a twenty mile radius. He has been to see her today and our victim probably found them out. How did she die?...A poison of some kind. Most likely one in this very shed. LeStrade look for one that could commonly be used by a gardener but is lethal when ingested."

"Right. Well you heard him."

John straightened up when he saw my approach and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"All solved?"

"Yup."

"That was quick."

"John! A word, please?" LeStrade called.

John nodded slightly and wandered over to LeStrade's side, his leg trembling slightly. I moved passed the front wall and heard loud, heavy footfalls behind me.

"Watch out Freak!" Anderson growled and harshly threw his body weight against my shoulder.

I stumbled lightly and Donavan's shrill laugh increased in volume. He pushed at me again and I staggered into the wall. Sharp and shocking pain ignited in the veins of the arm that got caught underneath my body and my torso curled instinctively over the limb. There was another shriek of laughter from the monster masquerading as policemen. I didn't want to feel emotional conflict at their childish words. I shouldn't have acknowledged the pain in my arm with gritted teeth and a stinging lump of muscle in my chest. But I did.

John wasn't here.

"How does it feel Freak?" Donavan hissed. "No one's on your side anymore. You aren't fooling LeStrade or even John. They've both seen right through your games, they know what a sick psychopath you are."

"He doesn't care anymore." Anderson reiterated smoothly. "Why do you think he left? To get away from you! He thought he was finally rid of you."

No. My John didn't think that. We were getting better. John was trusting me, talking to me, thinking off me. He didn't want to be rid of me anymore than I wanted him gone. I sagged against the mould infected wall and wondered where my strength had gone. My arm was agony and screaming at me to do something but I couldn't look away from the murderous rage on Anderson's unattractive face. I didn't know what I had done.

...John...

"Everything was better when you were dead! Why couldn't you stay dead?" Donavan screamed.

"I'm needed here." I protested firmly.

"Needed!? You're TOLERATED! Never needed." Anderson snarled.

The foot to my gut caught me off guard and sent me crashing to the ground. I couldn't collect my scattered breaths or thoughts. My abdomen throbbed in time with my arm and I choked on air in my throat.

John!

The ground beneath my head was cold and unforgiving, splinters of wood poking my cheek. I whimpered and drew my knees up to my chest protectively. I was vulnerable at the Policeman's feet and they laughed at me. Anderson was amused by the pain he had inflicted on another human being. They called me a 'sick psychopath' and a 'freak' but I had never mocked another's agony. Never stood over an injured man and jeered at him. This was madness and the world at its cruellest. Anderson's foot came down to close to my face and I tried to crawl away from him. Moments later I realised he had trapped me by my scarf. I panicked... violently.

"JOHN!"

...

A/N: I have very limited knowledge of crime scenes so please excuse that. I hope Sherlock wasn't too OCC in this chapter.


	6. My best friend

A/N: Thank you for all your lovely support and comments, they mean the world.

...

Fated Ghosts.

My best friend.

John Hamish Watson.

"JOHN!"

Sherlock's screamed ripped through me and seized at the heart that had been trying to keep him distant. He sounded hurt and frightened, he needed me. I turned away from LeStrade and sprinted toward my friend, ignoring my aching leg. Sherlock's cry had turned into wordless screams that just increased my fear. Someone was hurting him and instilling fear in him, I was going to make them stop. I rounded the corner of the dusty building and peered through the opened door. I couldn't hold back my roar of anger at Anderson and threw myself at him.

"GET OFF HIM!" I thundered.

Donavan shrieked and Anderson landed in a heap at her feet. Blood had started to seep from Anderson's nose and I hoped it hurt him. Sherlock had fallen silent in the background but I heard him whimper when LeStrade thudded into the room.

"John? What's happened?" He questioned.

"Watson's lost it!" Anderson wailed. "He attacked me!"

Confusion was written on LeStrade's face when he turned to me. "John? Is this true?"

I threw my hands up in fury and pointed at Sherlock's huddled form in the corner. "Look what they did to him! Get them out of here! OUT!"

Anderson scarpered away from me with Donavan barely a heartbeat behind him. LeStrade cast a concerned glance at Sherlock but followed them with stony anger in his eyes.

"Sherlock?"

I crept toward him, afraid to move to fast and upset him further but he had called for me and I intended to answer him. My knees cracked when I knelt down by his face and fluttered my hands over his form uselessly. Hs face was hidden by the crook of his arm and he was snuffling softly. On his favourite scarf was a dirty boot print and suddenly I wanted to tear Anderson apart and watch him burn. He had tethered my best friend down to the ground like an animal. I threw a glare at the closed door and prayed Anderson had been brave enough to stay.

"They're gone, Sherlock." I promised softly. "I sent them away, they can't hurt you. C'mon, Sherlock, look at me. Please."

I didn't dare to touch him and try to force him to look at me. There was no telling how volatile a frightened Sherlock could be. I settled myself more comfortably beside him and stretched my legs out, wincing at their stiffness.

"God, Sherlock, I'm so old." I moaned, just so I wasn't sitting in silence. "I can feel it creeping up on me. Thirty eight, doesn't sound that old does it? I hope I don't look that bad but I suppose you'd tell me if I did. I think I need a Holiday. Where shall we go? For some insane reason I want to go to Barcelona. Do you know what it's like? No? That's okay; we'll look it up at home."

I waited for him to reply but all I heard was his unsteady breathing.

"Did Mycroft tell you I punched him? Stupid git. He followed me everywhere for a week. Even tried to pay for my shopping. And he was surprised I hit him? Haha, idiot! Still...he did something right, I suppose. He went back and got you. That was good."

I sighed and stared down into the hidden face of my long lost friend. The man I owed the universe for.

"I missed you." I confessed with a whisper. "Every day with every breath. When you fell it...tore me apart in so many ways. You'd have hated the person I became. I did. There were so many things I got wrong in that first year. I hurt so many people and I can't take it back. I thought I was stronger than that. You changed something in me, Sherlock and it nearly killed me without you there. Then BAM!, Harry was dead and Clara was calling me drunk every night. It was bloody de ja vu all over again. You weren't there. I needed you. I know you think I was trying to leave you behind. I wasn't, at least, not in the way you think. You came with me wherever I went. I wanted to find a different place without history. I think it was a mistake. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep and the nightmares...GOD! They...were agony...every night just watching you fall and hit the pavement. You doubt me now. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to make you feel that."

I choked around a sob and pressed my knuckles against my eyes and pushed hard. A delicate touch to my knee startled me and I looked down into watery eyes. He stared up at me without blinking, his slender fingers curled over my kneecap. His face was porcelain pale and his lips twisted slightly on his face.

"Sherlock?"

Soundlessly he moved until he was curled against my chest and clinging onto my sweater. I held him tightly to me and knew I felt him flinch. He didn't let me draw him away from my body and he nuzzled closer to me when I tried.

"Are you hurt?" I inquired softly.

"Not a Freak." He mumbled.

Oh. Donavan's finished. Anderson's ended. I sheltered Sherlock in my arms and buried my face into his hair and shook my head fiercely.

"You are NOT a Freak. Never think that. They're just jealous off you. Ignore them."

"Not playing a game."

"Game? What game?"

"Here to stay. HERE!" He poked at my chest hard and wrapped one hand around my wrist. "With you."

"Good. Good. I don't want you to leave." I breathed.

"John...?"

Relief rushed through me, there was comprehension in Sherlock's voice. I heard him in it.

"Yeah?"

"My arm really hurts."

I frowned harshly. "Can I see it?"

Sherlock nodded gently and slowly uncurled his hand from where it was protected between our chests. I shuffled him around slightly so that he was curled into my side and carefully grasped his wrist. Sherlock flinched as I ran my fingertips over the swollen flesh and eased the joint. His arm was already a sickly blue with taunt skin. Sherlock pushed himself tighter against me when footsteps paced angrily outside and LeStrade's voice rose in volume.

"He's angry." Sherlock commented.

"He's furious. They hurt you. I don't think your arm's broken but we should take you to the hospital just to be sure."

"I don't want to John."

"It's best to be on the safe side. Just in case I missed something."

"No. You're the best. You're my doctor. I won't go to anyone else."

A smile stretched across my face at the trust Sherlock placed in me, even after I had hurt him last night. A stubborn pout had found my best friend's lips and colour had slowly started to return to his face.

"All right. But you let me look at it later, okay?"

Sherlock nodded so fast his hair flopped over his eyes. Slowly I pulled him to his feet and frowned when he curled his torso forward.

"Did they hurt you somewhere else, Sherlock?"

Rebellious eyes darted away from me and fixed on the wood of the door. "Of course not."

But when he straightened further he tensed and whimpered slightly. The only reason I could conjure up made rage boil inside me stronger than I had ever known. Had it truly been Anderson's fists that had done this much damage to Sherlock.

"Lair." I commented lightly "Can you walk?"

"Of course I can, John. Don't be absurd."

"My mistake. You've solved the mystery, let's just go home."

Sherlock swept away in a flourish of his long coat and disappeared into the darkness. Anderson sulked in the pathway of the house and glared at Sherlock's back. His nose was red and looked sore and all that it was gratifying it didn't seem enough. I had only just gotten Sherlock back; we'd just started communicating again. Who was this foul mouthed, ugly man to take him from me again? Why should I have to suffer his absence again if Anderson sent him running? A tremor of anger electrocuted the air as Anderson looked up at me. My fists were clenched by my sides and the rage inside me had suddenly become a molten, almost inhuman emotion.

Anderson smirked.

LeStrade never saw me move toward his Detective, Donavan's screams weren't enough to protect her secret lover. There was a resounding thwack as he fists met the meat of Anderson's face and sent him crashing to the harsh ground. He swung back wildly at me; caught in surprise and fear his attack was easily deflected. His nose broke under my knuckle; I felt bone shatter and cartilage tear. He got a lucky knee into my gut that momentarily stunned me and allowed him to wriggle free. He sent another kick at my face and I barely managed to scrabble out of the way and counter with another crash of my fist. There was so much noise around me, Anderson was hollering, Donavan was screaming, LeStrade was yelling and cars kept rumbling passed me. A torchlight shone in my eyes and I rolled away from the searing pain in my head it caused.

Something exploded behind me, there was unimaginable pain in my back and across my shoulders. Men were dying around me, coughing up sand and blood, crying for their mothers or partners. People that weren't old enough to die in this unforgiving landscape. Another explosion rocketed passed me and the dreadful, soul crushing sounds of someone being torn to pieces rang out. I pressed my face into my hands and prayed softly, my gun a steady, comforting pressure behind me. The air was dusty and suffocating and the sun was too bright in my eyes, my skin peeled across my cheeks.

"Turn that off! He's having a flashback!"

Confused, I froze at the voice that didn't belong here in this world. I couldn't understand what was happening. Buildings were still falling and people hadn't stopped dying but someone was calling to me. Calling me 'John.', not 'Captain or Doctor Watson.' Nobody called me John out here.

"You're okay, John. Listen to my voice, you are perfectly safe. LeStrade, get that...thing out of here. NOW!"

"...Sherlock?"

"Yes! Open your eyes, John."

"Happening?" I questioned, flinching as debris bounced of my hip.

"You've beaten up Anderson and are now suffering a flashback of some nature. You're okay but you've got to snap out of it."

Someone who wasn't really here slapped their hands across my face and my war faded into London City. Sherlock was sitting opposite me with wide eyes and a bruised cheek. LeStrade was hovering behind him, clearly frightened but unsure how to react to me. Anderson was being fussed over by Donavan as they huddled by the police car and he didn't look as bad as I had hoped.

"Oh."

"Are you back now?" LeStrade asked hesitantly.

"Think so."

"It is obvious he is, LeStrade. He responded to us, didn't he? He isn't ducking imaginary bullets anymore. Come, John. Stand up."

Sherlock hooked his slender hands around my arms and dragged me to my unsteady feet. I turned back to LeStrade even as Sherlock's hand tightened around me.

"I'm sorry about all this. Well...not for Anderson, he deserved it. I won't let him hurt Sherlock again."

I spoke words I wouldn't normally allow Sherlock to hear because he needed to. He needed to hear it so he knew that I still cared and that I was trying to find my feet again. I didn't want him to leave and I was understanding that he had only done what he thought was right for both our sakes. LeStrade just nodded and waved us away.

Mrs Hudson followed our slow progression up the stairs with a slack jaw and disbelief in her eyes. I admit we must have looked a bit strange. Sherlock in obvious pain, curled over his stomach and his arm. Me with dirty, mused hair and an inability to stop looking over my shoulder into the darkness. She stepped quietly after us in our shadows and watched as we flopped down into our chairs.

"Are you all right, boys?"

"We'll be fine, Mrs Hudson. Go back downstairs."

"Last night I left you two alone and Sherlock ended up with a bruise."

I winced slightly at the memory. "That was an accident."

"Exactly." Sherlock nodded. "We'll be fine without your assistance."

Our old landlady nodded slowly and left us alone. I levered myself to my feet and staggered across the room to Sherlock. I lowered myself to our dirty floor and reached for his hand.

"How does it feel?"

"Not too bad. Anderson hasn't down much damage to it."

I agreed with him as I tested his ability to move it and inspected the swollen muscle. The floorboard beneath me creaked sharply and I jumped slightly. Sherlock stiffened above me and I stubbornly pretended that my heart wasn't still racing and that I wasn't half sure that the building was going to fall down around me.

"You're shaking." Sherlock monotone.

"Am not."

"You're scared."

"I'm not. I'm really okay."

"Is this why you left? Did your nightmares get this bad?"

My hands stilled on his arm and my breath caught in my throat. I didn't want to remember my endless nights of falling out of bed convinced that I had fallen instead of Sherlock. Or feeling the Hound that was never there rip my belly open. Or relieve the bullet, Harry's death or a friend dying on the battlefield.

"I...uhm...got a little out of hand for a while. Mrs Hudson couldn't deal with me. So I thought it was best if I left for a while."

"Was it though? I mean for you? Did the nightmares stop?"

"That would have been nice."

I smiled slightly and wandered into the kitchen. Sherlock's eyes never left my back as I busied myself with cups and tea. But his hand on my shoulder wasn't entirely unexpected and I obediently stopped moving.

"I'm here now. You're my best friend, John."

"And you're mine."

...

A/N: There will be more of Sherlock!Angst next chapter but that will be in two weeks time. Sorry.


	7. Silent Angels

Hello everyone, thank you for your wonderful support and reviews. Enjoy the next chapter!

...

Fated Ghosts.

Silent Angel.

Sherlock Holmes.

I'm falling.

Twisting through the air with the wind tugging at my hair and at my coat. There's nothing for my hands to grab to save myself. The ground is getting closer, cold, hard and unforgiving. And I'm afriad. Because John is screaming incomprehensible words at me, agony like I've never heard thick in his voice. I can't see his face, the world is moving by to fast and I'm almost glad I can't. He doesn't know it's a cruel trick, that's he shouldn't be worried about me. I'm hurting him and that hits me harder than I imagined it would.

I'm sorry, John.

Graveyards have an eerie and forboding sort of beauty to them. Endless perfect rows of graves and chipped headstones. I was surprised to find John amoungst them, standing with a solider's ease in front of the rock that bared my name. This was the John who had protected me, behind a stoic mask and his military rules. It hurt inside a little, watching him from the distance and seeing that blank stare. For the first time, I wanted to run to him and shake awareness back into him. Prove to him that I was still alive and he didn't have to be this machine. That was my job. I was supposed to be cold, heartless and robotic. John never knew the human heart he brought out in me.

"You told me once that you weren't a hero, um...there were times when i didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this; you were the best man, the most human, human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. I was...so alone and I owe you so much. One more thing, one more miracle Sherlock, for me, don't be dead. Just for me, just stop it, just stop this."

His voice crackled in places and words got lost in the wind but I heard him. His pleads and the fracture of his heart. I would have given anything to give John his miracle. To put a smile back on his face and forget the last few days. But then John would never be safe. He meant to much to me to risk his life like that. I found my best friend in the small army doctor but couldn't stop him walking away.

...

John bustled around in the kitchen, his mouth stretched around a yawn and one hand rubbed the dust of sleep from his eyes. I was stupidly relieved to see his hideous knitted jumpers again and hear the racket he made as he moved. It was home, safety and my sanity. John kept the monsters away without realising it. I should thank him but I don't know how. I pressed my fingertips together underneath my chin and stared up at the ceiling.

"Tea, Sherlock?" John called.

"Please." I responded absentmindly.

There was the click of the kettle and a rattle of milk, briefly I wondered who had gone to get it. I shrugged it away and listened to John humming softly under his breath. He set the china mug down in front of me and craddled his as he sank down into the chair beside me. He pulled his laptop toward him and fiddled with the keys.

"Thank you." John whispered suddenly. I lazily rolled my head over to look at him. John blushed and refused to look at my face. " You...um...you gave me my miracle...a little late...but still. So, thank you."

I grinned softly and bumped my knee against his. "You're welcome. I know...you don't fully understand why the last three years had to happen, John. But I...I knew Moriarty wasn't lying to me. There was a sniper in one of the buildings on the day I ju-fell."

John stiffened, his hands freezing over the keyboard. There was a fine tremor in his arms and a twitch above his right eye.

"I never knew." He muttered. "I thought..."

He hissed in annoyance and abruptly turned his head away from me. I saw him start to rise from the chair and in a panic, my hand shot out to grab his wrist.

"Sit down, John. You're so angry with me and I need to understand why."

"I'm not one of your experiments, Sherlock." He spat.

"No, you're my best friend. I'm trying, John. _Please."_

My quiet plead unlocked his stiff muscles and he sank back down beside me but his eyes remained determindly on his nails. He was closing himself off to me again, trying to hide from the one causing him emotional pain.

"I thought you'd given up." He confessed. "I didn't see Moriarty on the roof until Lestrade went up there. For a few weeks, I actually thought you'd comitted suicide and I didn't know why. I went through everything I'd ever said to you. But I couldn't find anything that would explain why you'd done it. I just...didn't understand. I thought maybe it was me."

He dropped his head forward onto his hands and his face from me. I reached out and touched his shoulder softly.

"I didn't mean to make you think that. I really didn't. You were supposed to be alright."

"So I was just supposed to ignore that my best friend committed suicide in front of me? Just keep smiling and going to work like a good little soilder? Damn it, Sherlock! I'm not a machine."

I flinched a little at his raised voice and the fire in his eyes when he brought them to glare at me.

"I'm sorry." I murmured.

"No, you're not. You never are." He dismissed.

Anger rolled a little in my chest like a distant storm but I cooled it down and tried to remind myself that John was hurt. I shuffled myself closer to him and pressed my shoulder against his. He didn't pull away from me and something leaked out of him, a nasty emotion that didn't belong in him.

"For one so smart you can be an idiot sometimes, Sherlock. You died and I didn't. I have to admit that now I can see how clever your idea was. Who's was the body?"

"Someone from the morgue. Molly helped me." I hesitantly informed him.

He nodded. "I thought so. You put the van there?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Who was the man who ran into me on his bike?"

I gulped nosily. "I think it was the sniper."

A shudder ran down John's back and he pressed his knuckles firmly against his mouth.

"Oh. Well, at least he didn't shot me." He tried to tease. "Shit. What about you? Tell me what you did. I'm listening this time."

"I went to Eurpoe to track down the others. I hadn't expected Moriarty's web to stretch so far across the world. It was tedious and at times revolting."

I shuddered at the thought of darkned alleyways infested with rats as my bed. The bars with their fog of drugs that made even my mind turn to mush. The blood of vitims, both theirs and mine. The sleeplessness nights with only John's screams filling my ears. And the satisfactions of ticking of another death and being one step closer to home. I had become something worse than I thought I was.

"Well...that's in the past now. You're home. We're safe."

But life has a funny way of destroying everything.

...

"JOHN! JOHN, PLEASE, ANSWER ME!" I screamed.

My heart was a beating painful drum inside me, my pulse pounded in my head... John... I skidded down the gravel path and slipped often in my haste. A nameless thug had John and I couldn't find him. Lestrade had said he had an easy job for me, something to relieve the tension in my muscles and the thick sludge in my head. Naivily I thought I would be able to solve it and be home within a few hours, so I didn't take John with me. I left him at home, unprotected, vulnerable. I had forgotten that the world knew I was back and that everyone knew John. That included the suspect. He stole John away from the streets and I didn't even know.

The text message on the phone clasped in my hand taunted me.

**Missing a blogger?**

**He's at the park.**

I thought that he would be safe because Moriarty and his men were dead. I had made a dreadful mistake and I wouldn't allow John to suffer for it.

Lestrade waded through the foliage and called for John, his voice rising in fear with every second that passed.

"Sherlock. Stop." John's voice suddenly cut through the silence.

I jerked to a stop and peered into a spotlight of moon glow and found the figures in the centre. There was John, standing tall and proud as I knew he would be, even with the blade of a butcher knife pressed against his neck. The man behind him was tall, thin and wild. His eyes darted around the park, to me and down to John. I went to step forward but John's eyes widened in alarm and his hands jerked up.

"Don't move!" He ordered. "There's another one somewhere."

"Shut up!" The man growled and shook John harshly.

I obeyed my doctor and stopped, John's eyes glowed in relief. Lestrade blundered forward and only stopped when I locked my hand around his jacket. The blade pressed harder against John's neck and I watched a thin river of blood snake down his throat. My insides burned in anger and fear as John hissed and risked a swipe at the man.

"What do you want?" Lestrade questioned.

"Its not everyday someone gets the jump on Sherlock Holmes. The papers were right after all, he is a big fake. He had no idea how close I was getting to Doctor Watson."

His words pulled something deep inside me, despite everything I had said to John and let the papers print, I had never lost my confidence in my abilities. But this one tiny man had found a chip in the pride inside me that I didn't even know existed. John. I dropped my eyes to the floor for a second too long and heard the laughter that followed.

"He's a total fake and he knows it. It was very clever though, I give him that, faking his death like that. Don't you agree, Watson?"

"Bite me." John hissed. "He's my friend, he's not a fake."

"Shit, you are a guliable bastard. Pathetic."

"What about you?" I finally found my voice and my brain. "You're nothing. No job and very little qualifications. A drug addic and an alocholic. Your girlfriend just left you for another man WITH a future. And you feel you have the right to call others pathetic?"

A flame of untamed rage ignited behind his eyes and John whimpered softly. His hand flew up to tug on the man's forearm and he gasped.

"Let him go!" Lestrade ordered, his gun aimed at the man's head.

"Shoot him." I hissed.

But the gunshot came from behind me and whizzed the bullet passed my ear. Lestrade hit the floor for cover and dragged me down beside him. A second body hit the floor with a grunt and I peered up. John and his attacker had gone down in a tangle of limbs and my heart was chocked. Neither men were rising from the ground, they weren't even moving. John wasn't moving. I pushed away from Lestrade and darted to John with a burst of fear induced adrenaline. I barely registered than my knees were pressed into something wet and that it shimmered crimson in the moonlight. Only that John's chest was covered in blood and my trembling fingers couldn't find a pulse.

...


	8. Maybe then, he'll let me stay

Fated Ghosts.

Maybe then he'll keep me.

Sherlock Holmes.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

Because I'm here and John's gone.

"_Sherlock."_

John's body was terrifyingly still underneath my frantic touches, I couldn't find any pulse that tripped beneath my fingertips. He was dead. Gone. Murdered. He had left me alone again but I would never be able to find him again. He couldn't come back to me. Death is absolute and eternal. I had lost the one man who knew me inside and out. My best friend and I hadn't told him often enough. It hadn't been enough. Those three years of my life wasted, trying to destroy a dead man. John hadn't been saved. I hadn't been clever enough, fast enough, good enough.

"_Sherlock."_

The insignificant thief chocked over his last breaths and I couldn't bring myself to put him out of his misery. My hands pressed firmer onto John's chest and I watched the murderer gurgled on his blood and turn blue. The hole in his chest was tiny and the piece of metal in his chest just as small. A tiny fragment of manmade destruction was killing this man and had already claimed John.

"_Sherlock. Can you hear me?"_

He chocked and reached bloodstained hands to me. The man who had been his killer. Stoically, I watched him struggle for life and made no attempt to help him. He had stolen John from me and that was unforgivable. John would have helped him. But I could never have been as wonderful as John. This monster would suffer and he would die.

"_Sherlock, you bastard! Look at me."_

The light in his eyes went out, brown orbs stared up at the sky endlessly and I hoped to God he had hurt beyond imagination. Because now there was nothing inside me except a useless lump of beating muscle.

"_You're scaring me. Come back to me, Sherlock."_

Dead. Gone. I'm alone again. I don't know how to be alone again. How did I do it before? Before John and his friendship? I don't want to be alone anymore. Come back to me, John. I need you. I'm sorry.

"_I'm here, Sherlock. I'm OK. Please, look at me."_

Callused fingers framed my face carefully, their touch like fire against my cold skin. I recoiled away from the hands but they just held me tighter and stroked my hair softly.

"Sherlock? What's wrong with you?"

The world snapped back into focus sharply with a gasp. I heard the traffic rumble past me, felt the wet grass beneath my knees and smelt the copper tang of blood in the air. I blinked into the familiar eyes of my Doctor with disbelief and pressed my fingertips against his jaw.

"John?"

"Oh thank God." John wilted slightly in relief. "I'm here. It's OK."

"I thought you were dead."

John shook his head. "I'm fine. He missed, bloody idiot. He didn't hit me."

I bit my lip. "You had no pulse."

"I'm fairly sure I do, Sherlock." John took one of my hands and pressed it against his neck. His life's blood danced underneath my fingers and I gazed up at him in wonder. "See?"

"You're alive."

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock."

His gaze wandered over to the long dead criminal and I winced, feeling all the world like a child about to be scolded. I was suddenly fascinated by a strand of grass two centimetres longer than the other pieces nearby.

"I'm sorry, John." I whispered, wasn't that what I was supposed to say? To show remorse?

"Don't lie, Sherlock. I know you're not."

"Sorry."

John huffed a laugh and rose on shaky legs that barely seemed to support his weight. When I didn't move to stand as well, he bent down and dragged me to my feet. John smiled softly and dusted off his coat and smoothed back his hair.

"Don't know about you but I'm ready to head home now." His voice shook a little and I wandered what he was really thinking.

"What happened to Lestrade?"

"He's over there."

John pointed into the distance and to a crowd of people I had overlooked before. Lestrade was in the middle of the muddle of people, his voice not quiet carrying over theirs and he looked frazzled and nervous.

"A lot of people heard the gunshots and have seen the body, he's doing crowd control." John explained. "Sherlock...are you sure you're all right?"

The small man's eyes were bright with concern and fear that ignited some emotion similar to guilt inside me. I had lost the tight grip I had always had on my emotions, lost control in front of John and I could taste the apprehension that rolled off him.

"I'm fine John. But can we go home?"

"Sure, c'mon."

John span on his heel and weaved through the eager crowd. I caught Lestrade's eye as John left and mirrored the nod he sent me. A relieved smile flickered onto his face for a second before a loud man captured his attention again. I hurried after John's retreating form and slowed to a graceful, causal walk beside him.

It's OK. He's OK.

Don't do that to me again, John.

...

_-Start of dream scene-_

"I will burn the _heart_ out of you." Moriarty promised, his voice like sandpaper over the words.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"We both know that's not quite true."

I was shaken. My plans and deductions had gone wrong and John was here when he wasn't supposed to be. He should never be here, locked into a vest of explosives with his life in the hands of a high functioning sociopath and a mad man. But he was so calm and composed a perfect solider and I valued him all the more for it. Morarity sneered and chuckled at us and threw John easily away.

"Time's up."

A light flashed on John's vest; blinking a warning I barely had time to comprehend. John's eyes were dilated in fright and the knowledge of a death he couldn't escape from. The vest exploded in a burst of heat and flames, John screamed once and then the world went silent. Fearfully, I opened my eyes and staggered away from the carnage and blood around me. The mess of skin, blood and bones scattered around me could not be the remains of my proud best friend. But it was. I had lost him before we had even begun our amazing journey. But then he was there, standing in front of me, transparent and dead and so very angry.

"You did this." His ghost accused. "This is your fault."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know it would end like this."

"Hah! You're Sherlock Holmes, you know everything. Tell me, was this planned? Sacrifice my life to get to Moriarty? It's the sort of thing you'd do!"

I backed away, shaking my head wildly; my hands face up in surrender. "No it wasn't like that. I didn't think he would come after you."

"Why wouldn't he? Everyone else has. Is this why you don't have any friends? Because none of them survive. Donavan was right; I should have stayed away from you. Ran away as soon as I learnt your name!"

"John...please...I'm sorry."

" 'John, please, I'm sorry.'" The ghost mocked and took a few calculated steps toward me. I backed myself into the wall to get away from it. "You're pathetic. You should have stayed dead."

"W-What?" I squeaked.

"You heard me. Everything was working out fine until you came back again. I almost died today and it would have been your fault. The thief wanted you and he used me."

"But I saved you."

John laughed a cackle that wasn't his. "You were too busy having a break down to notice anything."

I could barely say anything in my defence, I wanted to crawl into a corner and hide away from reality. John was pure, unrestrained anger and I had unleashed it in him. He stalked closer to me and pushed his face to close to mine. His eyes were dark and soulless and already he smelt of decay.

"I hate you." He hissed. "I wish you were dead."

He brought his hands up and shoved my chest hard and I stumbled backward without anything to catch me. My heel struck the edge of a wall and I tumbled over it. I was falling from the same roof I had fought Moriarty on but this time there was no plan, no fake death. John had pushed me and now he watched me fall.

"JOHN!"

_-End of dream scene-_

"JOHN!"

I bolted upright in a mess of sweat and bed sheets, my pulse racing beneath my skin. I could barely find my breath through the fear of the dream. There was another strange emotion in me but it was the second time within twenty-four hours I had felt it. Fear. I was scared. Quietly, I kicked of my blankets and eased open my bedroom door. Jumping over the squeaky floorboard, I reached John's bedroom was practised ease and pushed the wood door opened. In the dim light of the moon, I could make out John's sleeping form beneath the covers. His heavy breathing reassured and calmed me a little but emotions stilled warred inside me.

John didn't hate me...did he?

Were all those people right? Donavon, Anderson, the thief...John would be happier if I was gone.

I bit my lip in bewilderment and softly shut the door. I'll prove to John I'm worth it. I'll try harder and be more.

Then maybe he'll let me stay.


End file.
